Witch Of Rhostshyl
J. F. Rivkin
Prologue
A stranger looked in the back door of The Jugged Hare and tried, with scant success, to catch the attention of someone in the kitchen. “Eh, is there anyone here called Steifann?” he shouted finally.
“I’m Steifann,” declared a thin, grimy youth named Trask, who was slicing a pile of potatoes. He drew himself up to his full, rather unimposing height, thrust out his narrow chest, and swaggered across the room to address the traveler. His mimicry was undeniably accurate. Somehow, by the tilt of his smooth chin, he even managed to suggest Steifann’s thick black beard. “What’s your business with me?” he demanded, in his deepest voice.
The cooks exchanged amused glances, and a serving-girl giggled. The messenger looked doubtfully at them. “I’ve a letter here…”
Trask gestured peremptorily at Walden, the head cook. “Pay the fellow,” he ordered, snatching up the sealed paper and perching on the table among the potato peelings. Walden obeyed, and the man withdrew, shaking his head in confusion.
“Trask, Steifann’ll tear you to shreds if you open that,” scolded the girl, looking over his shoulder eagerly. “It must be from Corson.”
Walden shoved her toward the taproom. “Go fetch him, Giniver, you goose-neither of you brats can read anyway.”
“Oh, I can make this out well enough,” said Trask. “Listen!” He broke the seal at once and held the letter at arm’s length, peering at it shrewdly, though it was upside down. “My darling, sweet lambkin,” he recited, loudly. “I think of you every moment, for I have an ache that gives me no rest, and no one else can ease it. Every night I toss and tumble about, dreaming of your broad shoulders and thick, mighty arms, your wide, warm chest, your manly hips and long, powerful thighs, your-”
“Give me that, you stinking little turd, before I tear your tongue out!” roared Steifann, charging in from the taproom and grabbing Trask by the collar. He seized the letter, and Trask wriggled from his grasp, ducked a blow, and scampered out the back door, snickering.
Steifann glared around at the others, but they made no attempt to hide their laughter. “Well, read it, lambkin,” said Walden. “What’s that worthless layabout Corson got to say?”
“That’s my affair-and I don’t pay you lot good wages to stand about gaping like half-wits! There’s work to do.” Steifann hastily scanned the letter, and everyone gathered around to hear the news, ignoring his bluster. “Nothing but a lot of lies and boasting, as usual… Her handwriting’s a bit better, though,” he said, surprised. As he read further he reddened, cleared his throat, pushed the hair back from his forehead, and finally grinned. “She’ll be home by first frost!” he announced.
1
By the time her ship docked at Chiastelm, Corson was already in a rage of impatience. She was bored by the confinement and monotony of shipboard life, which left her all too much leisure to imagine how Steifann was spending his time-and with whom.
“Rutting stud-bull,” she muttered. “Probably been to bed with everyone on the coast since I’ve been gone, especially that dirty hag Destiver.” And when she saw that Destiver’s cargo ship, the Windhover, was in port, her suspicions seemed all but confirmed.
There was not much work for a skilled mercenary in the peaceful port town of Chiastelm, and Corson was more often away than at home. During her travels she was no more faithful to Steifann than he was to her, but this did not allay her jealousy in the slightest. However she might carry on, in the distant lands where her sword took her, she felt that Steifann ought to be passing the time thinking of her and longing for her return. She knew this was foolishness, and in her more reasonable moments she laughed at herself for it, but Corson’s reasonable moments were few, where Steifann was concerned. And Steifann, a most sensible man as a rule, was just as unreasonable about Corson. Both furiously resented anyone whom they suspected of sharing the other’s bed.
But Corson despised Destiver, the cargo-runner and petty smuggler, more than all the rest. Destiver had known Steifann longer than Corson had, which was an unforgivable offense in Corson’s eyes. Furthermore, she’d recently charged Corson an outrageous fee to smuggle her out of Chiastelm when there was a fat price on her head. That bloodsucking bitch was probably at the Hare with Steifann right now, Corson thought grimly, the both of them drunk and randy as rabbits…
But once she left the wharves behind, her ill humor soon gave way to eager anticipation of her welcome. Whenever she returned to the Hare, her friends made much of her and even pampered her a bit, plying her with food and ale and questions about her adventures. Well, she had tales aplenty for them this time, and the loot to bear them out. When she showed them the gold and the large, uncut diamond she’d earned by her sword, they’d see that she was no common fighter-for-hire. She, Corson brenn Torisk, was a fit companion for gentlefolk.
The jewel, and her fine red-gold earrings, were the gifts of a grateful noblewoman, a lady of the lofty rank of Rhaicime. And there was a gown of gold silk as well, a token of hospitality from a family of wealthy vintners in the Midlands-folk of noble descent they were, too. She would let Steifann know that she’d been wooed by the handsome heir of a distinguished line, while he’d been bedding down with that scrofulous smuggler. And if Destiver was there to hear it, so much the better!
It had been too long since Corson had enjoyed a proper homecoming. The last time she’d come back, she’d hardly been home a day before she had to sneak out of the city in the hold of the Windhover. It had all been monstrously unfair, Corson thought. True, she had cut the throat of a powerful nobleman from Rhostshyl, but that was his own fault, she considered, for abducting the Lady Nyctasia while Corson was her bodyguard.
But now that Rhostshyl was involved in civil war, the rulers of the city had no time to concern themselves with a mere hireling killer. Corson could safely pass the winter with Steifann and his people, who were more of a family to her than any she’d known before.
When she caught sight of Steifann’s tavern her pace quickened, and she thought she could smell the savory stew, roasting meats and baking loaves, As always, she went straight to the kitchen door.
“I’m back!” she announced. “And I’m hungry as a hunter. I’ve been living on ship’s swill for weeks.”
But instead of crowding around to exclaim over her and hear her news, the others went on with their work, barely sparing her a greeting. They seemed busier and more rushed than usual. Steifann was nowhere to be seen-and neither was Destiver.
“Oh, good, Corson’s here,” said Trask. “She can keep an eye on the drunks out front.” He blew her a kiss and went on scrubbing a pot with unwonted industry.
“Corson, my pet, just in time. Here, carry this.” Annin, the head serving-woman, held out a heavy tray laden with mugs of ale.
“Never mind that,” Walden ordered. “Someone has to chop more firewood. We haven’t much left.”
“Where’s Steifann, then?” wailed Corson. “Why hasn’t he cut the wood?”
“He’s sick, we put him to bed. The man’s no use at all.”
“Sick? Steifann’s never sick. He’s healthy as an ox,” Corson said uneasily.
“What ails him?”
“Grippe. Fever. Go see for yourself-but don’t tarry. I need that firewood now.”
“Firewood…?” Steifann said hoarsely, as he lumbered into the kitchen. His face was flushed with fever, his eyes red and swollen. “I’m going out to chop the wood-” He broke into a rasping cough and collapsed heavily onto a bench,
“Soon,” he added, and sneezed.
“I’ll do it,” Corson said reluctantly, “and it’s more than Destiver would do, mark my word.”
“First help me drag this diseased dog back to bed, before he gives us all the grippe,” sighed Walden.
Steifann sneezed again. “Destiver? Is that lazy leech here again? She wouldn’t lift a finger if the lot of us were dying. She only comes by to drink my ale and tell lies about her past as a ferocious pirate.”
Annin bustled in carrying the empty tray. “What’s he doing in here? We’ve enough to do without looking after him.”
“I’m fine,” Steifann protested. “No need to fuss…” He leaned back against the wall and looked up at Corson, bleary-eyed. “So you’re back, are you? It’s about time. Where have you been?”
“Come along, love.” Corson said resignedly, pulling him up by the arm. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
